Hourglass
by Sinister Papaya Fondue
Summary: [Draco's POV] After the war, the Ministry 'pardons' Lucius Malfoy - by snapping his wand in two, stripping him of his magic, and exiling him from wizardkind. [Complete]
1. Part I

            This man is not my father.

            That is all I can think as I watch him.  Where has the proud, confident, perfect man gone?  There is only a shell.  He used to stand with his back straight and his chest out, making him impressive and proper and imposing all at once.  Now his shoulders sag, and I can see the jut of his collarbones through his thin, tatty robes.  His face was not perfect, but it was beautiful.  Lines in just the right places had given him a look of character and experience, while the glowing smoothness made him look young, healthy, and positively radiant.  He is jaundiced now; I can see yellow and red in the whites of his eyes, and the blue is somehow duller.  His irises have faded to matte where they once shimmered.  And his hair…it is long and wild and tangled, and resembles broken straw.

            This is not my father.

            His eyes rise briefly to mine.  They are hesitant and skittish, as if he thinks I might punish him for daring to meet my stare.

            "Father," I say, and force a smile.  My voice is shaky.

            "Draco…" he murmurs.  He raises a thin, pale hand, and the backs of his fingers brush my cheek.  I nearly start at how cold his touch is, but manage to stop myself.  His hand hovers, as if he wants to do something more, and it is then that I notice how gnarled and misshapen his fingers are.  There are scars across his knuckles, and each finger looks as though it had been trodden on and broken many times.  It looks painful, and I wonder if he can even hold a wand properly anymore.

            That careless thought shatters my precarious control.  A sob rips from my throat.  The muscles in my legs give out, and my knees crash to the marble floor.  The dam has been broken; my father has no wand to hold.  The Ministry snapped it in two and banned him from ever doing magic again.  They even went so far as to exile him from wizard-kind.  This is his last time at the Manor, and very probably the last time I will ever see him.

            Perhaps it would not have hurt so much if the man before me was not a broken one.  If he had shown a trace of that familiar Malfoy spirit, I wouldn't be worried.  He was resourceful, and even if he loathed it, he could live as a Muggle if need be.  But this man…there was no more spark in his eyes.  I never knew there were so many things in my father's head that the Dementors could use against him.

            "Don't cry, Draco."

            He has gathered me against his bony ribs, and caresses my hair with those twisted, clumsy fingers.

            "Father…" I gasp through my tears.  My hands curl into his robes that are far too thin and far too rough.  "I'm all alone.  How could they?  How could they…"

            "It is what they think of as justice," he whispers softly.  "What is justice but revenge in legal guise?"  

            "I can't."

            "Can't what?"  His voice is distant, dreamy.

            "I can't do it!  I have nothing…nothing.  Mum is gone, and they've all but killed you, and they took the money, every last knut, and I—"

            Suddenly he is gripping me tightly by my forearms.  I feel as though he is crushing my bones.  I did not think his emaciated body was capable of such strength.  I open my mouth to protest, to tell him he's hurting me, but his eyes are full of such fire, fire I have never seen before.  A fire that is not quite sane.

            "You have your wand and you have your freedom!" he hisses in my face.  He gives me one hard, neck-jarring shake.  "That is all that a Malfoy needs!"

            And then his eyes go wide and glassy, and he releases me as if he has been burned.  He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head once, agitatedly, as if there were a fly buzzing around his ear.  The brittle ends of his hair hit me across the cheek.

            He is up and gone a minute later, moving as fast as he can with a limp, as if a pack of rabid werewolves was chasing him.

            *                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

            The night wears on, and I can't find the courage to look for him in the dark, empty Manor.  Even the house elves were taken, so everything is covered in a fine coating of dust.  The Aurors came four days ago for the elves; since then, I have eaten nothing but eggs.  It is the only thing I know how to cook for myself.  As if on cue, my stomach growls, reminding me that I have not eaten in at least eight hours.  I sigh and put my hand over my flat belly.  I did scrambled last night; that means tonight is over-easy.  The pun makes me want to smack my head repeatedly against the hardwood floor.

            "You're hungry."

            My adrenaline spikes and I jump, badly startled.

            "Father!  I was lost in thought…"

            "You're hungry," he repeats, squinting as though it is an effort for him to hold onto the words.  "Everything echoes…I heard your stomach growl…"

            "Yes, well…they took the house elves, and I don't know how to cook much, and even if I did, I haven't the money for groceries…"

            He frowns intensely.

            "Come with me," he says, beckoning with his knotted hand.  He limps out of the room, and I follow, wondering what he's going to do.  As far as I know, he hasn't a clue how to cook, either.  But then, I am beginning to think that there are many things I don't know about him.

            He leads me into what was once his study.  The old desk is still there, mostly because it is bolted to the floor and heavily charmed with Unmovable spells that only a Malfoy can remove.  There was no way in hell I was going to remove those spells, even though I knew how to.  I felt that if I could keep a few things, just a few, it would somehow lessen the horror of the entire situation.  It was a comforting sight, even if it was no longer covered with my father's baubles.

            He's wringing his hands nervously.

            "I hope they didn't find it.  Oh, I hope they didn't find it all…" he mutters, his eyes darting around the room which is lit only by my Lumos.

            "Find what?" I ask.

            "The stash," he replies.  "A lesson to you, Draco.  A wealthy man never keeps all his money in one place.  Nor does he ever count on being rich forever."

            That said, he strides over to the dark, ash-strewn fireplace.  He stands on his tiptoes on the mantle and touches the topmost brick.  From there he counts down nine bricks.  Then he goes over two.  My eyes widen as I understand the significance.  9/2.  My birthday.

            He has to jiggle the brick a bit before it comes out.  Another one follows, and he reaches into the gap.  I can hear the telltale clink of galleons before his hand emerges with a good-sized black pouch.  There is enough in there to get me by for a few months.  I silently thank him for his ingenuity, and for the fact that he remembers where he's hidden his money after such an ordeal.

            He tosses the pouch to me, and I catch it awkwardly with my left hand.  I never appreciated the reassuring weight of a sack of money until now.

            "There are pouches all over the Manor.  But they aren't hidden by magic.  No, the Aurors would have been able to find them if I hid them that way."

            He proceeds to lead me all over the Manor in search of his sequestered fortune.  There are pouches in nearly every room.  Some are as big as the one behind the fireplace, some slightly larger, some only containing a few galleons and some spare knuts.  Pouches were hidden beneath floorboards, sewn into heavy curtains, secured to the machinery inside the top of the toilet (the best spot, in my opinion – who ever looks there?), inside mattresses – anywhere and everywhere.  There is even some paper Muggle money hidden in the frames of the various family portraits.  Those, too, were Unmovable, and had not been taken.  

I never thought to look in any of these places.  To think I had been surrounded by the Malfoy fortune all these years!

            He leads me into my room.  By this time both of us are laden with pouches.  I have no hands to hold my wand and give him some light, but it doesn't matter.  He knows exactly where he's going.  I watch in awe as he gives the top of the dragon-shaped bedpost a tug; the head of the dragon pops off with some effort.  He turns it over, and a small bag no larger than his hand falls out.  This bag clinks, too, but it is not the sound of galleons or knuts.

            He drops all the other pouches and sits rather unceremoniously on the floor.  I follow suit.  His free hand twitches.

            "Lum—" he stops, realizing that he can't cast the spell.  "Light," he says quietly, his eyes unreadable.

            I give us some light, hoping it won't trigger another outburst.  But he stays calm, and opens the little bag.  He motions toward me, and I hold out my hand.  He pours the contents into my palm: two rings and an amulet bearing the family crest, all silver.  One ring is wide, obviously a man's ring; it is ornately rendered in the shape of a snake, with two gleaming rubies as eyes.  The other, the smaller woman's ring, is studded with emeralds and diamonds.  The amulet is inlaid with pearl and opal.  All three items are breathtaking in their own way.

            "If there's nothing else," he says, his voice taking on that flat, dead quality again, "you can sell these, or pawn them."

            I close my fingers around the jewelry.  The metal is warm rather than cold.  And I know, with absolute certainty, that I will never, ever sell these heirlooms.  I would starve before I gave them away, for I know that whatever food they might buy would taste like ash to my tongue.

            *                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

            I apparate to Diagon Alley with a handful of galleons in my pocket.  The grocer does not question my appearance so late at night; I have been alone for almost a year now, and occasionally have to make such trips.

            "Lost your house elves, eh, boy?" he says as I bring my basket full of purchases to the front.  I'm sure he's read the news and knows of my father's fate, but he is a kind man.  He won't mention it; he only made the house elf comment because among my items is a cookbook.

            "I have to eat somehow," I reply glumly.

            "Have one of yer friends move in with you, kid.  Preferably one that can cook," he suggests.

            I sigh and lay the galleons on the counter.  There is just enough.  I pick up my sack of supplies and hoist it over my shoulder, and then tell him the truth.

            "I haven't got any friends."

            *                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

I had put my father to bed before I left for Diagon Alley, but I find him curled up in fetal position on the cold wooden floor. 

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

I can't sleep.  I don't know why I thought I would be able to.  My father was right; everything does echo.  I can hear the sounds he makes in his sleep all the way down the hall.  Most of them are not pleasant sounds.  He whimpers and mumbles, his voice small and desperate.  I am thankful that I can't make out most of the words he's saying.  The ones that I do understand make me feel faintly nauseated.

After a while, I can't lay in the dark anymore.  The old clock on the wall tells me that it is 2:39 am.  My father will be escorted to the nearest airport by Aurors in about twelve hours.  Where he goes is his choice, but go he must.

I must get out of bed and busy myself before the injustice of it all makes me do something rash.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

He has lost many things, but apparently he has not lost his ability to sneak up on people.  I have no idea how long he's been watching me, for I've been distracted with my first attempts at cooking anything other than eggs.  I find that it is much like potion-brewing; add ingredients here and there, in the right order, and treat it just so, and it will come out right.

I decided to make us a last meal of sorts.  But when my sixth sense slowly alerts me to his presence, it all seems very trivial.  In all likelihood he won't be able to eat much of it, anyway.  Last night I ate what few non-perishables were left in the cupboards.  He didn't ask for any; he simply sat at the table and watched me.  When I offered him some, he shook his head and then rested his chin on his arms.  After I had finished, I looked over at him, only to find him half-asleep.

"Good morning," I say, not turning around.  Damned if I'm going to let these muffins be anything but perfect – and if that means I must watch them, hawklike, for the entire fifteen minutes they're in the oven, I will.  But when he doesn't reply, I feel the need to turn and look at him.

I wish I hadn't.  He has taken a bath, for his hair is damp and lank around his shoulders, and a towel around his waist is his only covering.  The towel is a dark blue color, which only serves to accentuate the yellowish tinge of his skin.  He is thin.  God, so thin.  I can see his ribs, and all the musculature he once had is gone.  The cords in his neck used to only stand out when he was angry or stressed or doing some sort of physical labor; now I can see them, stretched tightly, in his state of total, apathetic relaxation.

"You're good at everything you do," he murmurs, staring at a spot just above my left shoulder.  "I was so blind."

I blink in shock.  What happened to the man who used to berate me for never being good enough?  The man who used to make me feel so ashamed of being bettered by Potter or Granger that I could not show my face to him for a week after such a tongue-lashing?  To some it would seem cruel, but without it, I wouldn't have had any motivation.  Perhaps he was a bit _too critical, but I have only become a better wizard because of it._

"Nonsense," I reply shakily.  I have no idea how to accept a compliment from him, so I rebut it.  "All this food will probably taste terrible, and I'll have wasted our money."

He sits at the table and watches me again.  Droplets of water dribble down his back, traversing a network of scars that were not there before he went to Azkaban.

The oven chimes, signaling that the muffins are done.  I levitate them out and set them on the counter to cool.  When I turn back to him, his hands are resting on the table, and he's staring at them.  His lower lip is quivering and his eyes are glassy with a combination of rage and absolute despair.

"I tried to brush my hair.  I can't get a proper grip on anything…I kept dropping the brush."  His voice lowers to a choked whisper.  "How can I live like this, Draco?"

My throat tightens.

"I'll do it for you, for now, Father," I say, hearing my voice as if it is coming from very far away.  "And once you're dressed we'll see about getting your hands healed, all right?"

He nods numbly, and when I return with the brush, he sits with his head bowed, saying nothing as I run the brush through his pale, fragile hair.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

My father looks like a quarter of the man he used to be.  The Aurors had the decency to leave our clothing alone, so his old, posh robes lend a bit to his appearance.  But the robes are too big for him now, and clothing can only do so much.  It can hardly conceal his haunted face and diminished presence.

At last we are ready.  He looks at me expectantly, and I hold out my hand.

"What..?" he says, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"We're apparating," I say, gesturing with my outstretched hand. 

Terror floods into his eyes, which widen considerably.

"But that…that's magic…I can't…they'll take me back there…" 

"You're not doing the magic.  You're just along for the ride.  If they tried to pin it on you I'd hex them all to smithereens."  The statement was meant to be reassuring, but it seems to make him even more alarmed.

"No!  Then they'd send _you to Azkaban, and—"_

"Father!  There's no need to worry.  Please."

He swallows and licks his lips anxiously.  At last he places a gnarled hand in mine and closes his eyes.  His palm is sweaty.  He's afraid.  I hate the Ministry more than ever for doing this to him; he's like an abused pet, jumpy and skittish and hardly able to trust.  Not that he had ever trusted much to begin with.  We are a family of Slytherins, after all.  But there is a great difference between choosing not to trust and being _unable to trust._

I sigh, squeezing his hand gently, and then we apparate.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

He walks behind me, his eyes on the ground.  It unnerves me, and several times I attempt to convince him to walk at my side.  But he keeps dropping behind.

It is only when we are practically to the gates of Hogwarts that he lifts his head and stares out from underneath his hood.  He freezes in place.

"Where are we going?" he asks warily.

"To Hogwarts," I reply over my shoulder.  "Madame Pomfrey will fix your hands, and whatever else."

I walk a few more steps, and figure that he will follow quietly, as he had been the entire trip.

"No."

I stop and turn back toward him.

"What?"

"No."

"Don't you want your hands healed?" I ask, confused and a bit agitated.

"Yes."

"Then what are you stopping for?"

He shakes his head, looking panicked.

"I can't go in there.  I can't."

"Father, it's the summer holiday, only the staff is there!  No one will see."

"NO," he says through his teeth.  His chest is heaving and a fine layer of sweat has broken out on his forehead.  "I can't.  I can't."

My eyes prickle with tears of frustration, and I resist the urge to pull my own hair.

"Father, please, I know you don't want to be here, but Madame Pomfrey won't tell, and it won't cost us a thing!"

That was the biggest problem: the cost.  I am fairly sure that St. Mungo's would refuse to treat him.  The hospital is steeped in Ministry politics, and would probably insist that he is perfectly fine, since he still has all ten fingers attached to his hand.  Bastards.  The last time I checked, healing was not a selective job.  Everyone was entitled to care.  But they have forgotten the nature of humanity; we are easily hoodwinked into fanaticism, into performing atrocious acts simply because it is our duty, or for the supposed good of the whole.  Our vices are what make us human.  Isn't picking and choosing who is worthy and who is not a vice in itself?

"Draco," he whispers.  His face is a mask of agony.  Two wet tracks glisten across the sallow skin of his cheeks.  "Draco, please, I can't."

The sight of a once-mighty man weeping and begging melts all my resolve.  Money is not important.  It is meaningless.  I would give every galleon I have just to ease his suffering.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

"I'm sorry."

That's at least the tenth time he's apologized.  Every time I look at him, he curls up in shame and won't meet my eyes.

"I told you, Father, it's all right.  Since when has a Malfoy cared about money?" I say, abandoning my attempt to count what's left of my funding.  The doctor gave us a discount, perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of pity – it doesn't matter.  My father's hands are fixed.  At one time charity would have made me bristle with anger, but now I cannot be so self-righteous. 

"But you need it."

"And you need your hands."

"It's not the same."

"You're right, it's not.  I can always earn more money, but you can never get another pair of hands."

That seems to satisfy him.  He is quiet for a while, and I begin to recount the galleons laid out before me.  The operation used up about a third of my funding.  I close my eyes for a moment and sigh.  There is still enough for me to be comfortable for about a year, provided I don't splurge on anything.  No new clothing, no more odds and ends from Hogsmeade…

I look over at him.  He is slowly flexing his hands, watching each movement with a critical eye.  The numbing charm must have worn off.

"Is there any pain?" I ask softly.

"A little," he murmurs.  I hear the joints pop as he makes a fist.  "But you know…there are two kinds of pain.  Positive and negative."

"What's the difference?" I ask.

"Positive pain is the sort of pain you get from straining yourself to achieve something… the pain you get from growing, healing, working…striving to accomplish all that you are capable of.  Or recovering from a dark time…the old pain is still there, but you know you're going to beat it, so it hurts in a different way…" he trails off, opening his fists and examining his palms.

"And negative pain?" I prompt.  I probably shouldn't ask, but this is the most he's spoken since he came home, and I simply can't let go of his voice.  Out of every aspect of his being, his voice is the only thing that is still as it was back then.  Certainly it has changed in volume, confidence, tone, emotion…but the voice, the core, raw sound of his expression, is exactly the same.  

"Negative pain is destructive pain.  The sort of pain that will rip you to shreds inside.  It is the inside that really matters, in relation to pain…one can do anything to the outside, anything at all, and there is some way to bear it.  It is only when pain reaches the mind that it gains the power to destroy."

_And has it destroyed you, Father?_ is all I can think as I stare at him, and for the first time in nearly eighteen hours, he stares back.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

We finally got around to eating the food I had cooked earlier that morning.  It was good, although the muffins had gone slightly stale from sitting out.  Neither of us really cared; he seemed to be in a muted state of euphoria because now he could hold his fork properly.

He ate slowly, painstakingly, as if he wanted to memorize the taste of every bite.  In spite of his rapt appearance, I don't fancy myself a chef.  Anything would be heaven to man who ate only gruel and bread for nearly two years.

"Would you like some wine, Father?" I ask impulsively.  I managed to salvage a few of the best vintages from the Aurors by charming the wine to appear colorless, like water, and transfiguring the bottles to look like plain, clear water bottles.  I explained their presence in the basement by saying that even the finest wizard must be prepared for the worst.  After they left, I transfigured them back to their original form, and they still sit exactly where they were before the stripping of Malfoy Manor.

"Wine."  He repeats the word as if it were a foreign language.  He nods.  "Yes…"

I stand and move towards the basement door, which is not far from the kitchen.  It is a small luxury to me, but I am sure it will be like ambrosia to him.  I briefly worry about his tolerance; it can't be very high when he hasn't had a drop to drink in almost two years and his liver is in a less than stellar state.  I won't allow him too much.  It won't do either of us any good for him to get roaringly drunk just three hours before the Aurors come to take him.

I return with the finest bottle we have.  He surprises me by holding out a hand as I walk by to try to find the corkscrew.  I let him have the bottle and notice him examining it closely as I rummage through the drawers.

"This is what we drank when you were born, Draco," he says softly, his eyes far away.  "This is for special occasions.  Your graduation, your marriage, the birth of a child…not this.  Not me."

"Homecoming is a special occasion, is it not?" I counter, at last locating the corkscrew.

He does not reply, but his eyes have darkened again, in a way that tells me that I will not be seeing much more light in them.  I take the bottle from him and open it.  He winces as the cork comes off.

I _Accio some clean glasses.  They're not even wine glasses; the Aurors took all the fine crystal.  But a glass is a glass, or so I've come to learn, and I pour two equal amounts.  I press one glass into his hands, and he does not resist._

"To coming home," I say, fishing for that so-called silver lining.  "And to never crossing the threshold of Azkaban again."

He raises his glass in acknowledgement, a small, bitter smile on his face.  And then we drink.  

The wine is so delicious that it brings tears to his eyes.  At least, that's what I hope it is.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

"There's one more thing I have to show you."

I look up from the papers I've been sorting through.  They're his release papers from Azkaban and the Ministry.  I've been poring over them, attempting to find some loophole that will stop them from executing this terrible punishment.  But so far their wording is airtight and their policy rigid; I fear that there really is nothing that I can do.

"What is it?" I ask, feeling the pound of a headache beginning above my right eye.  

"Come with me."

I stand and follow him, wondering what more could possibly be hidden in this house.  He leads me into the rarely-used sitting room.  It was a splendid room, before the Aurors came.  All that is left of it now is the massive, ornately rendered fireplace.  That is where he leads me.  The hearth is tall enough for a grown man to stand; I blink in confusion as he walks right into the cold maw of stone.

"Are you coming?"

"Coming _where_?"

There is a scraping sound, and he re-emerges from the fireplace, his hands sooty.

"Into my sanctuary."

I peer in cautiously, wondering if he's lost his mind.  But that thought is quickly dashed as I see a door to the far left of the pyre.  It is placed so that you cannot see it at any angle from the outside, but once you are inside it is quite obvious.  At least it is now, since he has it partially opened.

He moves towards the door and slips past it.  I follow.  There is a short corridor, and then a set of stairs.  I am a bit worried about how I can navigate the narrow, steep stairwell in the dark, but then he whispers,

"Thirteen."

That's how many steps there are.  I count as I step, and find myself on solid ground.  A room stretches out before me, dimly lit by one or two candles.  The musty, earthy smell tells me that we are underground.  An extension of the basement, perhaps?

I cast a Lumos and look around me.  It is a large room, but there isn't much in it.  The biggest and most ostentatious feature of the room is the grand piano at the far end.  It looks to be in good shape, but is in desperate need of dusting and polishing.  Aside from the piano, there is a table with one chair and two shelves on the far wall which house a few old toys and games and, quite interestingly, two pensieves. 

"It helped you sleep when you were young, did it not?" he asks, nodding towards the piano.

I was told nearly a thousand times of how cranky and colicky I was as an infant and toddler.  I remember, to some degree.  One particularly bad night, a beautiful ghostly music had begun to swirl around me.  I was asleep in less than fifteen minutes.  From that night on, the music would come nearly every night a little after I was tucked into bed.  I would wait for it, listen for it anxiously, and when it came it would soothe me like nothing else could.  My mother had taken a picture of me in my slumber once, and in it I had a tiny, contented smile on my face.  It was the one picture of me she kept by her bedside.  It was also the only memento of me she had taken when she left.

She had thought the smile was because I was having wonderful dreams.  I was, but it was all because of the strange, melodic music that drifted through my room, as if my own personal angel was charming me to sleep.

The music had waned as I grew older, but I had mellowed, so it was all right.  It would still come every now and then.  Sometimes I wondered if it was all in my head.  Now I know that it wasn't.

"It can only be heard in your room," my father says, lifting the cover and running his fingers wistfully over the keys.  "It used to be my mother's room.  She loved to hear me play, but my father hated it.  Thought it was too Muggle, and couldn't stand the sound.  My mother created this room for me so I could play and have somewhere to go where no one could find me.  It's something every child needs."

I nod.  How right he is.

"Can you play?" I ask hesitantly.  It seems right, after all those years of thinking an angel was playing its song for me.  In a way, it was the truth.  I want to see him touch the keys with his new hands, and for him to know that there is still something magical he can do even without his wand.

I can see that he is debating with himself.  But at last he swipes a hand over the dusty bench and sits.  His hands hover over the keys for a moment, as if he isn't quite sure of them.

"Do you have a favorite?" he asks.

"I…I don't know the name," I stammer, surprised.

"Describe it."

"Um…well, at first it's slow and sort of…mournful.  And then it becomes bouncy and happy, and then…fast and somewhat chaotic.  Although I only heard the other two parts once…I would always fall asleep during the first."

He nods, and I think I see his lips quirk upwards, although it could be my imagination.

"I know which one you mean.  But I don't think I can play the last part…it's been too long."

"Then just play the first part."

He nods again, and then his brow furrows in concentration.  His hands move to a certain placement.  He stares at them, and then shakes his head.  He moves them a few keys over, hits one note, and then nods, satisfied.

He plays softly and tenderly; his hands do not falter.  They memorized this tune long ago.  I think, as the doleful notes roll over my ears, that I probably shouldn't have chosen this one.  It is undeniably beautiful, but it makes me ache with unexpressed sorrow.  My chest tightens, and my throat closes up painfully.  It is difficult to breathe.  I step back and sit heavily on the bottom stair.  My eyes keep welling with tears, but I fight them, pressing my palms against my eyelids until I see bursts of purple and yellow stars.

Suppressing the urge to sniffle, I glance up at him.  His face has that same rapturous look that graced it when he took his first sip of wine.  He is playing with his eyes closed.  I know instinctively that the song is winding down; I have heard it dozens of times in that state somewhere between sleeping and waking.  I suppose I am in that same kind of limbo right now; there is the Draco that is All Right and Can Handle Everything, and then there is the Draco that Feels Helpless and Wishes he Could Just Lay Down and Die.

The song ends, leaving the small room pregnant with a heavy silence.  I feel incredibly drained all of a sudden.  Perhaps it is the lack of sleep.  Perhaps it is simply catharsis.  All I know is that the Draco that is All Right and Can Handle Everything will not last much longer.

"What's it called?" I whisper.

"Beethoven's Sonata 14.  The Moonlight Sonata," he whispers back.  "First real piece I ever learned to play.  My father despised it.  Said he might as well give me a funeral so I could play my dirge.  He killed my old owl and then told me I finally had a good reason to play 'that piece of rubbish'."

"He wasn't a very nice man, was he."

My father chuckles mirthlessly.

"No, he wasn't."

The silence lingers for a few more moments, and then he stands up.  He goes over to the shelf and takes down the two pensieves.  He sets them on the table and beckons me.  I go, a little wary of what memories the vessels hold.  Was his life really so bad that he needs _two_ pensieves to exorcise the demons?

"I'm going to leave these to you, Draco," he says, tracing the silver rim of one of the bowl-like containers.  "You can view them, or simply leave them as they are, or smash them to bits for all I care…One contains the majority of my bad memories, and the other all the good."

It is obvious which is which.  One is a great deal fuller than the other, and the silver, liquid surface is turbulent and restless, ever changing.  The second is still and placid, and its mist smells faintly of something, I'm not sure exactly what, that comforts and relaxes me.

"But Father…don't you want your good memories?" I ask, confused.

He shakes his head.

"No, Draco.  I don't want any memories at all."

My eyes widen as I realize what he is saying.  Before I even blink he is on his knees in front of me, his hands clenched together as if in prayer.

"Please, Draco.  Obliviate me, kill me, something, anything!"

"I _will not kill you, Father!" I nearly shout, horrified._

"Oh, Draco, you would only be putting me out of my misery!  I can't live like this.  I have nothing, I know nothing, I'm alone and I can hardly muster the spirit to open my eyes each day!  Please, Draco!  Do this for me…don't make me dishonor myself by taking my own life…"

A sudden, violent surge of anger bubbles within me.

"You're _not_ my father!" I scream at him.  I am too angry to care about how his body shrinks and his face crumbles into despair at my words.  "_My_ father would never give up!  He would never let anyone beat him!  He would make do with what he had and STILL BE THE MOST GODDAMNED ARROGANT AND ARISTOCRATIC PUREBLOOD IN THE WORLD, EVEN IF HE HAD TO WEAR RAGS AND WORK AS THE WEASLEYS' BUTLER!"

The splotches of red fade from my vision, and as I try to calm myself, I realize that I have backed him into the wall.  He's pressed against it, his body curled tightly in a defensive position.  His hands cover his head, as if to ward off a blow.

"I'm sorry," his tiny, hollow voice states.  "I didn't mean to displease you."

Despair quickly rises in place of my fury.

"Father, I'm sorry!" I gasp through tears that I can no longer contain, crouching down next to him.  "I didn't mean to be so harsh…"

His tight, passive posture doesn't waver.  He still believes that I would raise a hand or wand to him.

"Just do what you will to me."  His voice is bitter now, and thick with emotion.  "If I am not your father, then you have every right to punish this stranger in your house."

"Father, please, I didn't mean it!  I've been alone since Mother left and now I have you back, but I hate what they've done to you!  And now they're going to snatch you right away again!  At least…at least when you were in Azkaban I knew where you were and that you were alive!  But now…now…why must they do this?" I rant between sobs.

He doesn't answer me at first, and I curl up next to him against the wall, aching from the sheer injustice of the whole situation.  After a few moments, he slowly lowers his hands, and then rests his chin on his knees.

"That other man you spoke of…that proud man…would you kill him if he asked you to?"

I meet his eyes, blue-grey to arctic blue.

"That other man would never ask."


	2. Part II

He looks as good as I can possibly make him look when the Aurors come.  He has schooled himself into an icy, aloof composure that almost reminds me of the man he once was.  He is still that man, somewhere deep inside.

He doesn't speak very much, neither to me nor to the Aurors.  His behavior stings my pride a bit, but I deserve it.  I never should have yelled at him like that.  For Merlin's sake, he was in Azkaban for almost two years!  Lesser men have gone insane in two _days.  There are demons in his mind, demons that can produce the negative pain he spoke of.  I suppose I always knew; I'd seen both agony and fury in his eyes one night when I went to the loo and found him shivering and drenched in a cold sweat.  But at that time I had been as fooled as everyone else by the illusion of Malfoy perfection.  I had merely thought him ill, and nothing more._

Still, it hurts when I realize that he is not going to say goodbye.  My jaw clenches, and I fight a barrage of emotions – fear, grief, anger, indignance – all vying for dominance in my mind.  Two Aurors escort him out the front door, and I close my eyes against the tears that threaten to spill.

But I do not hear the door click shut.  I open my eyes, glancing about in confusion.  There is still one Auror standing by the door, looking at me expectantly.

"Well?" he snaps.

"Well what?" I almost snarl back.

"Are you coming, boy?"

"Coming…?"

"To the airport," he says slowly, rolling his eyes.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

The airport is a thousand times worse than King's Cross.  It's huge, with high ceilings that make me feel as if I'm inside some domed, boxed-in world.  There are people everywhere, all rushing about like crazed hippogriffs.  Some are shouting into their cellular phones, others pushing their way through the crowd, and more still staggering under the weight of too much baggage.  It's absolute chaos.  I hate it instantly.

"So," the obnoxious Auror says, slapping my father viciously on the back, "where to, Malfoy?"

My father's lips purse slightly and his nostrils flare – two small but definite signs that he is becoming angry.

"Lourdes," he says, not looking at the Auror.

"I don't think so," the supercilious Auror says.  "Too close to Beauxbatons."

"Bordeaux, then."

The Auror snorts.

"So you can sit on your arse and sip wine all day?  I don't think so, Malfoy.  This isn't a vacation.  It's exile, you daft fool."

I can't stand this man's condescending treatment of my father.

"Your job is to escort him to the flight to the city of his choice," I speak up coldly.  "You have no right to rule out any of his destinations.  Nor do you have any place insulting him."

The Auror completely ignores me.

"As a matter of fact, I'd say all of Western Europe is off limits, wouldn't you, boys?" he says smugly.  The other two Aurors agree, just as smugly.

My fists clench in anger, and I am about to say something more when my father raises his hand slightly.  I know that gesture well.  It means I should hold my tongue.  I bite my bottom lip furiously.  I would hex these bastards into next week if I could.

When my father speaks again, he says something none of us ever expected.

"Alaska."

"What?" I blurt.

The Auror gives him a crooked look and then shrugs. 

"It's your funeral, Malfoy."

I am still staring at my father, dumbfounded, when the lead Auror dispatches the other two to find a flight to Alaska.  Alaska, of all places!  He might as well have chosen Siberia!

The Auror looks down his nose at us.

"You can have some private time, if you wish," he says.  "But remember, I'll be watching you, so don't get any ideas."

I give him another dirty look and then take my father by the elbow and lead him towards a sitting area.

"What are you thinking, Father?  Alaska?!"

He simply gives a little shrug.

"I've seen pictures.  I always wanted to visit."

"You hate the cold!  You'll freeze!"

"Winter isn't for another few months."

"Father, can't you go somewhere where you have the faintest clue how the people live?"

"They won't let me stay in Europe."

"America, then!"

"Alaska is part of America."

I growl in frustration.

"I've made up my mind, Draco.  And just because I _go_ to Alaska doesn't mean I have to stay there."

I sigh, dropping my head into my hands.  He's right, but I can't shake the feeling that he's chosen the place that will kill him the fastest.

"Promise me you won't just…go there and let yourself waste away."

"What does it matter to you, Draco?" he says, standing abruptly.  "I'm not your father anyway."

And with that, he walks back towards the Auror.  I can only watch his retreating figure and wish that I had never lost my temper.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

"It's time to go, Malfoy."

I watch as my father nods curtly and stands.  The Aurors hand him his bag; it is no larger than a knapsack and contains only a few pairs of muggle clothing and enough American currency to get him on his feet in his new life.  He slings it over his shoulders and accepts his ticket from the smug Auror.

The public address system crackles.

"Air Alaska Flight 92, to Juneau, Alaska, now boarding rows 21 through 40."

Nine two.  My birthday again.  I frown and whip around to look at the giant electronic board that displays flight numbers, destinations, and statuses.  Lourdes, France.  Bordeaux, France.  Juneau, Alaska.  All three are flight number 92 for their respective airlines.

A tremendous lump rises in my throat.  He didn't choose Alaska to let it kill him.  He chose it because it had my birthday attached to it.  I turn back to him, hurting more than I have ever hurt in my entire life.

"I let you guide me, Draco," he says softly.  His eyes are bright and glassy, and he holds his head high.  "I love you."

He turns away and moves toward the desk where the attendant will check his ticket.  Tears spill down my face.  Even after I said such horrible things to him…even after I hurt him…he still trusts me and loves me.

The woman checks his ticket, and before he walks through the door, he turns back.  He smiles at me sadly and mouths,

"_Au revoir, mon fils._"

Something snaps within my mind, and everything spins out of control.  I feel my hand slip into my pocket to grasp my wand, and I hear my voice say,

"Au revoir, mon pere."

And then, close on its heels, comes another utterance.

"_Avada Kedavra!"_


	3. Part III

They brought me to Dumbledore.  Not to the Ministry, not to Azkaban…to Dumbledore.

"Is this what you teach children to do, Dumbledore?  Kill their own fathers?!" one of the Aurors screams at the old man.

I close my eyes and let the tears flow down my face unchecked, waiting for the kind-eyed Headmaster to condemn me.

"The boy is overwrought, Carmen!" Dumbledore booms.  I jump badly at the volume and menace in his voice.  "He was captured by Voldemort and then witnessed his classmates and teachers being slain!  His mother abandoned him not even a year ago, and now, to have his father taken away as well!  You should know better than to taunt a child who is in such a state!"

"You think his actions are justified by a bit of misfortune?" the Auror shoots back.  "The War has taken its toll on all of us, but we are not murdering people because of it!"

"You are a pureblood wizard!" Dumbledore thunders.  "You know as well as I that there is no greater shame for a pureblood than to be stripped of his magic!"

"It is no less than Malfoy deserved!"

"Judgment is not ours to render, Carmen.  If you would recall the _Rites du Mort_ of ancient pureblood law, any pureblood that is stripped of his magic and does not wish to live may legally be executed by one of his own kin."

"Malfoy didn't _ask_ to be killed!"

"He did!" I wail, slipping off the chair the Aurors threw me into.  "He begged me to kill him and I didn't want to do it!"

"Then why did you, foolish boy?!" the Auror called Carmen cries, grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me violently.

"Take your hands off him, Mister Everrett."  Dumbledore's voice is colder than ice.

"I am arresting him for murder!" he says, grabbing me roughly by the wrist and jerking me to my feet.  I sag against him.  I can't handle any of this.  I can only cry and cry and cry and keep thinking that I killed my father. I _killed_ my father.  My God, I killed him…!

I lunge for Everrett's wand with only one thought in my mind.  I manage to wrest it from him and I point it to my own chest.

"_Avada—"_

But before I can get the rest of it out, something hits me.  The wand flies from my hand and I topple backwards.  The back of my head smacks into the arm of the nearest chair, and mercifully, all goes black.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

I had hoped that I was dead.  But if I am, I must be in Hell, because Albus Dumbledore is the first thing I see when I open my eyes.

"Good day, Mister Malfoy," he says.  "Are you feeling well?"

I do not answer him.  I squint against the midday light and look around.  The room is done in beige tones and a bit of black.  I am bundled in blankets in a massive bed.  Across from me there is a wooden bureau with a collection of hourglasses on the polished surface.  Three are turned over and running, and the remaining six are waiting for a purpose.  Overall, it is a comforting room.  But it is definitely not part of Hogwarts.

"Where are we?" I ask.  My voice is rough and unrecognizable.

"Where is not relevant," Dumbledore says, favoring me with a small smile.  Ah.  That means it's someplace secret that I shouldn't know about.

"Is he awake, Albus, or are you talking to yourself again?" a familiar voice fills the room.  I look over to the door, and cannot believe who I see there.

"Professor Snape!" I gasp, shocked.  And why shouldn't I be shocked?  I'd gone to the man's funeral not two months before.  Although, now that I think about it, it _was closed casket, and we never quite found out how or why our Potions Master died just two weeks after the defeat of Voldemort._

"Hello, Draco," he says smoothly.  The corners of his lips twitch; if I didn't know better I'd say he was repressing a grin.

"You're…you're supposed to be dead," I blurt.

"To most of the world, I am."

"Why?"

He shares a glance with Dumbledore before walking up to the bed and sitting on the edge.

"You know I was a Death Eater, Draco."

I nod.  My father had told me as much.

"What you don't know was that I was a double agent."

My eyes widen.  That is a very thin line to walk, and he must have walked it well, because he's still alive.

"So when the War ended, I no longer had to worry about Voldemort killing me.  But the other Death Eaters were not dead, and many of them managed to escape the first Auror sweeps.  There were two attempts on my life…and both brought the Death Eaters much too close to Hogwarts.  So the Headmaster and I agreed upon a mutual solution."

"Faking your death."

"Precisely.  My job was over, and I think you know I never really took to teaching.  No one would miss me, in any case.  So I am free to live my life, and Albus no longer has to worry about renegade Death Eaters invading Hogwarts."

"What did you tell the Ministry?"

Dumbledore chuckles, and Snape shoots him a dirty look.

"That I was killed by an exploding cauldron."

I actually feel myself smile.  Of all the ridiculous things to say…a world-renowned Potions Master killed by one of his own cauldrons!  Well, I suppose it served its purpose.  That sort of thing _would be much too ugly for an open casket._

"Well," Dumbledore says, slowly getting to his feet, "I hope you don't mind staying with Severus until you are well enough to return home."

My smile fades as I recall the circumstances of my being here.

"Am I in trouble?" I ask softly.

"No, Mister Malfoy, you are not.  Your actions were not illegal, and once Mister Everrett saw how distraught you were, his desire to press charges evaporated."

"And…was there a…a funeral?"  I feel so bleak saying the words.

"I saw to it that your father received a proper burial in the Malfoy family cemetery."

I swallow the lump in my throat and fight back tears.

"Thank you, sir."

Dumbledore nods and turns to leave.  But as he's going out the door, he pauses.

"One more thing, Draco.  Your mother returned for the funeral.  She wants to see you."

My mother.

I remember the day I realized she was gone.  I did not speak to her much when I was at school anyway, so it wasn't strange that I didn't get any letters from her.  But I did send one just before the winter holidays to remind her that I was coming home.  I didn't receive a response, but then, it wasn't the sort of letter that required one.  I went about my business as usual.  But when the train arrived at King's Cross, there was no one there to greet me.  I thought maybe she was simply running late.  But midafternoon slowly turned into a cold, bleak night, and still I was alone.  The only other person waiting was Hermione Granger.  Her parents came around seven o'clock.

She looked back nervously as her father picked up her luggage and they began to leave.

"Um…Draco?" she said at last, somewhat timidly.  "Is someone coming to get you?"

I think she expected me to snap at her and call her names like I usually do.  But I didn't.  Instead, I just sighed and answered,

"No one's coming, because there's no one left."

I just got on the train and went back to Hogwarts.  I moped for the entire holiday, even after presents inexplicably appeared at the end of my bed on Christmas morning.  I'm sure they were meant to be anonymous, but a student can't help but recognize the handwriting of his teachers.  One was from Dumbledore – a huge bag of Honeydukes sweets, naturally.  Another was from Remus Lupin, of all people.  He'd come back to teach DADA that year; his gift was a book that was charmed to write stories of your dreams if you kept it under your pillow.  I wondered why he gave me a gift at all, and one day I worked up the courage to ask him.  He didn't seem surprised that I knew it was from him.  All he'd said was that he knew what it was like to be alone, and that sometimes the smallest, silliest gestures were the ones that mattered most.  He was dead two months later.

So my mother has come back.  I suppose it was only her sense of propriety that made her do so.  Either that, or the hope of pilfering more valuable things from the Manor since my father isn't around to deny her.  Indeed, she must not have much of a sense of propriety if she is willing to abandon her only son.

"I don't want to see her," I say darkly, my fists clenching the blankets.

Dumbledore nods.

"I thought you might say that.  You needn't worry about it, then.  I will see you when school begins."

And with a small nod, Dumbledore exits the room and leaves me with Snape, the man who has risen from the dead.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

I don't want to leave the bed, and Snape doesn't force me to.  He simply asks that I perform a thorough _Scourgify on myself once in a while and that I eat well enough to maintain my current weight.  It's not that he doesn't care; oh no, quite the opposite.  I have never witnessed him handle anyone so delicately.  It is as if he knows something that I don't._

I've spent many days staring at the ceiling.  It isn't overly interesting, but it is blank, which serves my purpose.  When I look at it, I can think, because there is nothing to distract me.

I ponder many things; sometimes my thoughts are quite mundane, and other times they are wild, roiling things rushing through my mind too fast for me to remember.

But today I don't feel like thinking.  There is a soft thunk as one of the hourglasses turns itself over.  I have gotten used to the periodic sound; it is strangely comforting, as is the whisper-soft sound of sand filtering from globe to globe.

Expending more effort than I have in at least two weeks, I turn myself around in the bed so my feet are where my head would normally be.  I prop my chin in my cupped hands and contemplate the hourglasses.

There are nine of them.  I ruminate on why Snape decided on nine; does it have some sort of special significance for him?  They are all different sizes, shapes, and materials, as well.  Only three of them contain real sand; one is pale white sand, another has sand that is so red that I wonder if it is from Mars, and the last is darker, more mineral-laden sand – sand that had once been a mountain.  The other hourglasses contain an interesting assortment of substances; one is tiny crystals that shine like rainbows, one is a thick, viscous liquid that is a color that seems like it shouldn't exist in nature, and still others are full of curious things like glass beads and small, polished stones.  The two largest are at opposite ends of the bureau and loom over the others like pillars.  The one on the left is made of dark ebony wood and is by far the strangest of the nine.  Inside it is a snake, mottled with startling green and yellow patterns and coiled tightly in the shape of a spiral.  When it is turned over, the snake slowly slinks down to the bottom section and begins its spiral anew.  The other hourglass is made of pale birch wood that circles around the seashell-shaped globes in a double helix.  This one contains small seashells, none of them bigger than your pinky nail.  They are an interesting collection.  I wonder if they reflect Snape's personality or mentality in any way.  He always seemed such a plain, settled man.  Until now, he was a flat character in the drama of my life.

"Which one is your favorite?"

Snape's voice breaks through my musings, and I lament the loss of my ability to tune out his voice.  Then again, he no longer speaks in that teacher's drone, so I can't help it.

"I don't know," I answer, and rest my head in the comforter.  "How does the snake live?"

"It's not real.  Looks it, though, doesn't it?"

I nod into the bedclothes.

"So what inspired this great outburst of movement?" he asks, gently sarcastic.

"I needed something new to look at."

"This is an entire house, you know.  Not just one room."

I am silent, and he knows that I am not ready to leave the room just yet.  He is quiet, as well; I lift my head to look at him, and notice that he's staring at the hourglasses.

"Which is your favorite?"

He tilts his head to the side, and then stands and picks up the one with the white sand inside.  He takes a seat in his usual spot on the edge of the bed, cradling the delicate object in those masterful hands of his.

"It's the smallest and the plainest of the collection, but it's also the most significant."

"Why?"

"Because it was the first."

I turn my head toward him and rest my cheek on my arms; I sense a story coming on.  Normally he surrenders anecdotes or histories to me quite willingly, but this one is apparently not so forthcoming.  It must be very personal.

"Draco…" he pauses and sighs, swiping a hand through his hair nervously.  "When I…first realized the horror of what I was doing in the name of Voldemort, I went to the only person I could.  Everyone else was either gone – dead - or no longer wanted anything to do with me.  I was not even sure that Dumbledore would want to deal with me, but at least if he didn't…well, it would ensure me a quick death.  But he listened to me; he took into consideration more than just the fact that I was a Death Eater.  He considered what had driven me to plunge myself into such…reckless, mindless bloodshed.  And he gave me a chance to redeem myself, to remake myself…he forgave me.  Forgiveness, Draco.    Gandhi once said that the weak can never forgive; forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.  I never understood that quote until that moment.  I knew I had done the right thing.  You see, Draco, Voldemort, or shall we say Tom Riddle, was never able to forgive his father for being a Muggle.  But Dumbledore…he didn't judge me.  He forgave me, even though I had wronged him and countless others.  _He is the strong one of the two.  Voldemort was merely skilled at propaganda and hooking those who were missing something in their lives…it is amazing how quickly a downtrodden man will abandon his morals when he is given a cause and a bit of praise."_

Snape stops to take a shaky breath.  By now I have closed my eyes.  I do not need to see him; doubtless his face is full of regret, pain, and misery.  Instead I let his mellifluous voice carry me.  In its absence I cannot resist a few questions.

"Who is Gandhi?  And that still doesn't explain why that hourglass is your favorite."

"Gandhi is a story for another day.  I can give you a book about him, if you like.  And as for the hourglass…" he pauses again, sighing.  "The time right after my turn was a dark one.  Death Eater activity shot up.  People were dying left and right.  Members of the Order, squibs and half-bloods and muggle-borns, even a few unfortunate purebloods…and I had to be there to watch it, even assist it, even though I was no longer possessed by the mad passion that had once controlled me.  It ate at me, day after day, and I don't know how I even lasted as long as I did.  One night, not long before the Potters were killed, actually, the Dark Mark burned and I simply…lost my mind.  I tried to…remove it, to cut it out of me, literally, but when the first layer of skin came away it was still there; it was burned into me down to the bone.  Voldemort was inside me, with me…forever.  I couldn't stand the thought, so I…took measures to end my own life.  Of course they found me, and I obviously didn't die, but oh, I did _not want to live.  I wouldn't leave the infirmary, not even when Voldemort summoned me.  It is partially my fault that the Potters died; the meeting I missed was the one during which their fate was discussed.  Had I known…perhaps __someone could have taken steps to prevent it.  But if it had not happened, Voldemort never would have been defeated, or at least…delayed, and I would be dead for sure.  If things had kept going the way they were, I would have found a way to kill myself, even under Albus's nose.  It was a mixed sort of guilt…but just the knowledge that Voldemort was gone, really gone, was enough to make me willing to give life a try again.  But I was still far from all right, and still I toyed with the idea of suicide, and Dumbledore knew it.  One day he came to me with this hourglass.  He said that inside that hourglass there was Time; pure and simple Time.  And sometimes Time runs out or Time stops, but it must always start again, and all it takes is one small reversal.  And so it is with life; there are times that one may lose his thirst for life, or may just need to stop living for a while…but life is the _only_ thing we are given without expense, and the only thing we can truly control for ourselves, and to let it end would be a most foolish thing.  So you can be in limbo, but you must learn to live again, even if you don't feel the way you did or have the things you had – even if your life has been drastically altered, it is still livable, and worth exploring.  And so he gave me the hourglass, and said that anytime I am tempted to give up, I should turn it over and let the sands remind me that there is something worth living for, even if it is only the simple greed of keeping what is mine – my life."_

He turns the glass over in his hand, and the sand begins to rush down to the bottom at a slow, steady pace.

"Watch closely, Draco.  This is your life…and right now, you're letting it slip through the cracks.  You're letting your Time move on without you.  And believe me when I say that every moment lost is a moment you'll wish to have back someday."

Before I can comment, he stands and places the overturned hourglass on the bedside table.  A moment later he is gone.

I stare at the white sand for the next hour, my mind blank and overwhelmed.  But when the last grains sift through the opening, I feel strangely empty and wish that the enigmatic Snape would come back, so that I felt like I was alive and not just a permanent lump in the guestroom's mattress. 

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *           

I nearly scare the pants off him the next morning, when I meander down to the kitchen for breakfast.  His wand is between my eyes and he is halfway through a jinx before he realizes that it's me.  Apparently I have inherited my late father's ability to sneak up on people.


	4. Part IV

There is a lake behind the house.  I have been staring at it longingly for several days now, but of course, just when I became ready to go outside, violent summer storms roll through.

The storms themselves are beautiful, though.  There is a skylight in the sitting room, and through it I watch the clouds.  It is interesting to see them go from innocuous white, puffy wisps to black thunderheads; if you are still enough, you can see the clouds expanding, surging upwards into the atmosphere and filling with conflicting temperatures.  I would like to know the science of it; Snape tried to explain it to me, but I'm the sort of person that can't quite grasp something unless I go over it myself.

I love the lightning.  I'll sit there and try not to blink, not wanting to miss one single splintering of that magnificent electricity.  Snape taught me an old muggle trick to track how far the center of a storm is from you, in which you count the interval between lightning and thunder.  I expected it to be utter nonsense, but it does seem to work, if not terribly precisely.  The closer a storm gets, the shorter the intervals become.  

When I'm not watching the storms, I'm reading.  I let Snape pick the books for me; I would have no idea where to start in his library.  I read that book about Gandhi.  If all muggles were that intelligent, brave, and disciplined, the world would not have nearly as many problems.  The Gandhi book led me to other books about suppression, discrimination, and atrocity.  My real undoing was a book about the Holocaust.  The Holocaust was not foreign to me; many wizards had died during that dark time, and old Binns had lectured on it in History of Magic.  But of course I never gave my full attention to that class, and it didn't become real to me until I looked at that book and saw muggle and wizard side by side, working themselves to death because of the whim of one man and his propaganda machine.  Muggle and wizard, working together, suffering together, dying together, being buried side by side in the same undignified mass graves that they themselves had probably dug at some point.  It makes me think of Voldemort and how similar the situations are.  After reading and seeing that I began to realize that the muggles could not be blamed for all the world's conflicts and shortcomings.  Wizards are just as brash, biased, and corrupted as muggles.  We simply think of ourselves as better because we can do things that the muggles can only dream of.

Now Snape is steering me away from that sort of reading; I suppose he is engaging in a propaganda of his own.  But I know it is one that will inevitably help me, so I don't mind.

Now he has me wading through the vast collection of philosophy.  There is much that I cannot process, and sometimes Snape will sit with me and offer me tangible examples.  He seems to genuinely love the subject and the mind-straining and debate that goes along with it.  I wouldn't dream of saying it to him, but he is vastly better at teaching philosophy than he ever was at potions. 

Today, however, there are no clouds to watch.  The sun is out and the cicadas are chirping.  I couldn't concentrate on a book if I tried; I keep eyeing the lake, lusting for a swim.

"Will you stop _staring_ and just go?"  His voice holds a tinge of irritation that inexplicably reminds me of my father.  "There are no giant squids, I assure you."

"I'm not very good at swimming."

"It isn't deep."  

"You've been in it?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"I've never seen you in less than full ensemble.  You mean to tell me that you've gone into that lake in just your skivvies?"

Snape's eyebrow goes up and a rather devilish smirk graces his face.

"Less than that."

I grimace.  I didn't quite need that image in my mind.  But it seems like a wonderful freedom.  At the Manor, could I have _ever_ just torn my clothes off and gone for a swim?  No, that would be much too undignified and unbefitting of a pureblood heir.

"Well, if you won't go, I will," Snape says, standing and heading for the door.  I watch him as he strolls down to the grassy bank, hands in pockets.  Then he begins to strip – layer after layer of black clothes.  Probably for my sake he leaves his boxers on, and then wades into the water without a moment's hesitation.  The water reaches his waist, and then he dives under.  I don't see him for several seconds.  At last he emerges in the middle of the lake near a small dock I hadn't noticed before.  He pulls himself up on it and lounges, looking like the very picture of summer relaxation – completely not like himself.  All he needs is a drink with a little umbrella in it.

I am suddenly very jealous.  But what's stopping me?  Nothing.  I am a pureblood in disgrace.  Neither I nor the Malfoy name means anything anymore.  So why shouldn't I do as Snape did?  I have no reputation to worry about now.

I am out the door and sprinting down the lush green lawn, pulling my clothing off as I go.  The water is cold, but I force myself to run straight into it or else I'll never get all the way in.  I gasp at the frigid temperature, but oh does it feel good!

I wade out further and further, pondering whether or not I might be able to make it to the dock.  I really am a very inexperienced swimmer, and have not been in the water in years.  But I'm all right as long as I can still touch the floor.  I am amazed at how far away the shore is; the water is up to the middle of my chest.  Snape did say it wasn't too deep…if I can just walk a bit further I may be able to flail my way to the dock—

And suddenly, as I take another step, the lake's sandy floor is no longer there to cushion it.  With a gasp I go under, getting a mouthful of murky water.  I open my eyes but can see nothing; the water is too dark.  My arms thrash, but I touch nothing but water.  Water all around…and by now my lungs are starting to burn and I am dizzy with panic, because I can't swim and I don't know which way is up and there are no mothers or fathers left to pull me out and scream at me for scaring them half to death while simultaneously hugging me so hard that I feel like my ribs are going to crack—

And then I break the surface, propelled by strong hands.  I cough and don't know if it's water or tears or both on my face.

"Perhaps I should have warned you about that little drop-off," Snape says, pulling me back to where I can stand.

"_Little?" I gasp.  "It must be a hundred meters deep!"_

"I don't know," he replies with a shrug.  "I never tried to touch the bottom.  But you _did_ say you could swim, if not very well!"

"I haven't in years," I mumble, now a bit calmed down, and more embarrassed than anything else.  "And I wasn't good at it even when I did swim."

"Lack of skill and inexperience are very different things.  I'm willing to bet that with some time and proper lessons, you'll be just fine."

"Really, I'm just no good at it—" I start.  But Snape will hear none of it.

By the end of the afternoon, I can swim to the dock and back easily.  Snape and I even try to dive down to the floor of the drop-off.  I become nervous about ten meters down and turn back.  Snape goes further than me and comes up nearly a minute later, gasping for breath.  I ask him if he touched the bottom, and he shakes his head.

Perhaps it _is_ a hundred meters deep.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

The time for me to go back to school is getting close, and we both know it.  He says he'll come to the Manor and Diagon Alley with me under a Glamourie spell, if I want.  But I turn him down; returning to the Manor might be difficult for me, and I need to start being self-sufficient again.  He understands this like he understands everything else.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

When I go back to the Manor, I know instantly that I can't stay there.  It is so huge and barren and full of painful memories.  I'll get an apartment in Diagon Alley…or something.


	5. Part V

When I see the thestrals upon returning to Hogwarts, I get to thinking.  If you can see thestrals after you've witnessed death, what sort of things can you see once you've been the _cause of death, the very murderer himself?_

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

The Slytherin Quidditch team elects me captain.  But I have lost my fervor for the game.  I thank them for their confidence in me, but tell them that I will no longer be playing.

Ferdinand Munkstone, a sixth year chaser who is actually quite good, follows me after my exit from the common room.

"Are you crazy, Draco?" he asks, cornering me and shaking me by my shoulders.  I resist the urge to punch him, and he continues.  "With Potter gone, we'll win the Cup for sure!"

I wrench out of his grasp, a sudden fury rising in me.

"It's a cheap victory," I snarl.

And just like that, I lose the last 'friends' I had left in Slytherin House.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Later that month I tell Dumbledore that I will no longer be living in the dormitories at Hogwarts.  He tries to convince me to stay and even says he'll give me my own room, but I don't want to be here anymore.  Slytherin, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw alike – they all despise me.  It's mostly my fault, but just because I've created a bad situation doesn't mean I have to sit there and suffer in it.

He approves my relocation, but also tells me that he will not tolerate any tardiness, lack of preparation, or absence from my classes, and that I must have a small conference with him every two weeks.  I think I can manage that.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

There is only one bad thing about me leaving Hogwarts.  At the apartment, I will not have access to a piano.  At Hogwarts I can go to the Room of Requirement any time I want and there will be a piano and music waiting for me.

That is where I go after my conversation with Dumbledore.  I feel the need to play one last time.  The only music that looks appealing to me is Beethoven's Sonata 14.

It floored me a bit when I learned that Beethoven was a muggle.  But by now I have decided that muggles are just like wizards, in terms of intellect and talent; you have your Merlins, and you have your Neville Longbottoms.  That's all there is to it.

I am midway through the sonata when I sense someone else in the room.  But I don't stop playing.  Let them see me.

When I finish, there is no comment from the intruder.  I find this curious and turn around to see who it is.

"Um…I…I sometimes come in here to study…" Hermione Granger stammers, looking flustered.

I shrug and slide off the bench, folding up the music and putting it away.

"I never pictured you as the musical type," she says.

"I'm sure you never pictured me as anything but the snotty pureblood bastard type," I reply.

"Well, you certainly never gave anyone anything else to work with."

I look at her for a moment.  I have always been surprised and a little impressed by her boldness.

"I suppose I didn't.  But now you know better, don't you, Granger?  Perhaps I'll have to obliviate you."

She ignores my sarcasm and cuts right to the heart of the issue.

"What's the matter with you, Draco?"

I look her straight in the eye.

"The real question, Granger, is what _isn't_ the matter with me?"

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Moving away was at once a very good idea and a terrible idea.  It is nice to have my own space, but I find that I'm lonely.  It doesn't make much sense; I had no friends at Hogwarts, and yet I wasn't lonely.  I guess just having other people around is enough to make a person feel like they have companionship.  Now, alone in my dingy apartment, I feel marooned. 

The year wears on, bringing one of the harshest winters in years.  I don't eat enough and I barely turn the heat on – it seems so frivolous to spend my money like that when I can just put on some heavy clothing.  In spite of layers of jumpers and winter clothes, though, I am still chilled to the bone every time I have to make the walk from the gates up the snow-covered lawn to the large double doors of Hogwarts.

I know that I'm not healthy, but somehow I don't care.  The teachers know this, as well, and several times I'm lectured by Dumbledore and Sinistra, who is the new Head of Slytherin.  But it rolls off my ears; with the passing of summer and autumn and the start of the cruel winter, I feel like the elements are some kind of oversimplified allegory for my life.

Snape visits me once and tells me that I look like pneumonia waiting to happen.  Two weeks later, I wake up one morning and find that it is quite beyond my means to get out of bed.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Severe illness has a curious way of putting one's life into perspective.  As I lay there, alternately shivering with chills and burning with fever, coughing until I have a headache and the muscles in my stomach and back ache, I realize, succinctly, that if no one comes, I'll die.  And why should someone come?  It's the winter holidays.  No one will notice my absence, because I am not supposed to be anywhere.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

It is warm and soft, and for a moment I think that I'm back in the bed at Snape's house, and that this has all been a bad dream.  But the scratchy, biting pain in my throat and my clogged nose tell me that it isn't so.

"I…I think he's waking up."  A sweet feminine voice that I have never heard before wafts over me.

"Thank Merlin."  That voice is definitely Snape's.

However, when I open my eyes it is not Snape, but another man leaning over my bed and pressing his wrist to my forehead.  I am confused for a moment, but remember that he is supposed to be dead; if he must be out in the world at large, then he must change his appearance.  So it is Snape, just under a Glamourie spell.   

"What--?" I begin, but before I can say much more, a potion is being poured down my throat.  It is bitter and it makes my eyes water.  I cough, and agony envelopes me as my sore muscles scream.

"Miss Abernathy, a cold compress, if you would?"

There is the sound of footsteps moving away, and when my coughing fit subsides I manage to voice a complete sentence.

"How did you know?" I rasp.

Snape gives me a look.  His face is strange but his eyes are the same smoldering black coals as always.

"Your neighbor," he says, gesturing in the direction that the girl went, "heard you coughing.  She knocked on your door, and when no one answered, she became alarmed.  She knew you were a student at Hogwarts and contacted Dumbledore."

I nod.  Strange that a neighbor I have never met or spoken to would be so concerned for my well-being.

"What day is it?"

"December 23."

I cough.  Sweet Merlin, I've been half-dead in this apartment for nearly eight days.  He seems to know what I'm thinking.

"Well, at least you'll recover just in time for Christmas," he shrugs.

Oh, yes, what a merry time that will be.       

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Christmas comes and goes and I really don't feel much like touching the few presents that were left on my windowsill.  Sometime around the twenty-seventh my appetite returns with a vengeance, and the hunger pangs drive me out of the apartment for the first time in almost two weeks.      

The grocer refuses to charge me and tells me that if I don't take better care of myself, he's going to send his house elf to chaperone me.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

I'm fumbling for my key when I hear footsteps behind me.  They are slightly uneven and accompanied by muffled sobs.  I turn and see Chantille Abernathy walking down the corridor, clutching her ratty winter coat tight about her body.  The first thing that strikes me is that her legs are bare; it's incredibly cold outside and I wonder what would possess her to go out in such inadequate clothing.  My eyes travel upwards and light upon something even more shocking.  Her hair is in disarray and her face is bruised; blood is frozen in its track from her split lip down her chin.

"Are you all right?" I ask, setting my groceries on the floor.

"I'm fine," she says as she brushes past me, her voice quivering.  I cannot tear my eyes from her.  She is obviously not fine.  She takes out her keys and tries to unlock her door, but her hands are shaking so badly that she can't.

"Who hit you?"

"Just some bastard," she says bitterly, clutching the keys in her hand.  "You get a bad one every now and then."

It dawns on me, then, that she's a streetwalker.  Why else would she be wearing next to nothing on such a cold winter night?  My kind, pretty neighbor is a prostitute.

I unlock my door and prop it open with one of the bags of groceries.

"Come into my apartment.  I'll make you some tea."

She looks at me, mistrust plain in her eyes.  She knows that I know.

"It'll warm you up.  And I'll help you take care of those cuts and bruises."

Her lip quivers and her face fills with shame.

"It's all right.  I can do it myself," she says, attempting to unlock the door again.  But this time she can't even keep hold of the keys; they slip from her hand and land on the floor with a metallic clatter.  She sinks to her knees to get them, but doesn't rise.  I hear her sniffle.  She's crying.

I help her up and lead her into my apartment.  She doesn't protest, but she won't meet my eyes.  There is so much shame and self-loathing inside of her.  Suddenly all my problems seem insignificant.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

She's fast asleep in my bed now.  The tea I gave her was of the Snape variety – that is, made specifically to relax the drinker.  It wasn't just her face that was bruised.  Tomorrow I'm calling Madame Pomfrey to come tend to her.  I couldn't do much but wash out her cuts and give her ice for her swollen eye and lip.

Before she fell asleep she urged me to finally open my presents.  She couldn't understand why I didn't want to in the first place.  She said that she hadn't received a single present since her seventeenth birthday, and she's twenty-two now.  Unless, of course, you counted the one gift a year she got from her 'manager'.

There is another ridiculously large bag of sweets from Dumbledore, a box of health and nutritional potions that are no doubt from Pomfrey, and of course something from Snape.  It doesn't surprise me at all that it's an hourglass.  It is simple, like his first one was; the same white sand and dark wooden accents.  There are books, too, and a N.E.W.T. study guide.

I turn the hourglass over and watch the sand sift through.  When it finishes, I look over at Chantille Abernathy, nestled in my bed with her face looking like an angry artist's palette.  

She's given me the answer to my question.  When you have killed, you do not gain the ability to see some magical beast like a thestral.  No, you see an entirely different kind of beast : the beast that is the human condition.       


End file.
